Hoffner rubbed his face with both hands and then nodded at the silent flight attendant who refilled his tomato juice. He sorted through all the leadership mumbo-jumbo they’d tried to fill him with this week to find a nugget that fit this situation. Objectivity sprang to mind, and he decided to give it a test ride. If he looked at the Cass problem objectively, the department needed her. They were seriously understaffed. And if what Cass had told him last night was accurate, the coming days would bring a storm of work and media attention. Murder was never easy. But working two murder scenes at the same time, with such limited staff, was nearly impossible. Hoffner would simply have to find a way to cope with her presence. Objectivity wins this one.
Satisfied that he’d made a decision, if not with the decision itself, Hoffner drained the tomato juice and squirmed in his seat, unable to avoid his biggest problem. All of this rumination over Elliot was a ploy to avoid addressing what was truly difficult about this trip back to Texas. Hoffner glanced again at the woman in the middle seat and confirmed that she was still asleep. Slowly, he pulled the folded letters in their clear plastic bags from his jacket pocket and spread them across the tray. They’d arrived, one a week, for the past four weeks. Each was brief, the individual letters that formed the words snipped from newspapers or magazines and glued to the page. They were in hand-lettered envelopes delivered by the United States Postal Service, and each escalated in intensity:
How well do you know Moses Franklin?
Where is Moses Franklin?
Why do you trust Moses Franklin?
Moses Franklin is not a nice man.
At first, Hoffner thought the letters were a joke. And then that they were an attempt to smear Franklin’s name. But when he received the third letter, Hoffner wondered if this was something more than a nasty prank. At that point, he slid each into its own plastic evidence bag. The last letter arrived the previous Friday, just before Hoffner left for the retreat. He had avoided dealing with them, dodging the possibility that they represented an unsavory side to one of his preferred officers. But now, with Mojo’s mother and brother murdered in a potential case of mistaken identity, Hoffner had to look into Moses Franklin’s activities, if for no other reason than to protect the man from whoever had killed his family.
If his personality had held the capacity for guilt, Hoffner might have felt responsible for not acting sooner on these four letters. These four notices that something wasn’t right with Moses Franklin. But the writer hadn’t said that he wanted Hoffner to do anything about his concerns over Moses, and he – because the writer must be a he – hadn’t added threats to his messages, as in: You’d better do something about Moses, or else I will. But Sheriff Bill Hoffner was not a man who questioned his own actions, certainly not when they could lead to something as distasteful as guilt.
He folded the plastic bags together and put them in his pocket, then leaned his head into the seatback and closed his eyes. He set his immensely logical brain to work, trying to find a way to investigate one of the department’s favorite officers without setting his already frazzled force into an uproar.
CHAPTER 24
JOSEPH SHUFFLED THE BUSINESS cards together and shoved them, along with the photograph, into Moses’ wallet. His heart was pounding and a sickly sweat slicked his forehead. If Moses was seeing a white woman, this opened a whole new world of possibilities in terms of murder suspects. A surge of anger shot through him: was it Moses and his colorblind pecker who had gotten their mother killed?
He yanked open the drawers on Moses’ desk and rifled the clutter of paperwork they contained: ancient Christmas cards, ‘thank you’ notes from school kids, seemingly meaningless clippings from the Forney Cater, and at last, credit card bills and bank statements. He dug and found the most recent of each. Moses owed about fifteen hundred dollars on the two credit cards and had just over two thousand in the bank. Regular deposits totaling almost five thousand per month went into his account from the Forney County Sheriff’s Office.
He snorted. Not a bad chunk of change for a guy who gets to wear a gun and ride around in a car all day, Joseph thought. So where did all that money go?
He looked at the account’s debit history and remorse closed his throat. In addition to paying a hefty sum in alimony, Moses was making at least half of the mortgage payment on their mother’s house, along with contributing to the other household bills. The account also reflected regular payments to a local pharmacy. Probably to cover the drugs his mother needed during her chemotherapy and radiation treatments.
A good guy, Moses. Joseph blinked back tears and shuffled the papers together. Better than I’ve ever been.
The closet door opened with a puff of Moses’ cologne, and Joseph changed into a pair of his brother’s jeans, a yellow polo shirt, and leather loafers. He found a duffel bag on a shelf and packed Moses’ uniforms, work shoes, duty belt, work-out gear, and some casual clothes. He hesitated a moment before packing his brother’s guns. One was silver and although he tugged at the bottom of the handle where the thing that held the bullets went, for the life of him, Joseph couldn’t figure out how to open it to see if it was loaded. The other was a little black revolver and he could see the bullets’ shiny butts in their housing. He also packed belt and ankle holsters and two boxes of each type of ammunition Moses kept in a drawer. This was one area where Joseph could seriously screw up at being Moses, and he thanked God that his brother was a marginal shot. Joseph had never fired a gun. Their heft and cool surfaces had a wicked feel that made the chicken skin of his testicles crawl, and he was relieved to stuff the guns in the duffel. He’d have to find somewhere remote and figure out how the things worked.
Moses’ wallet went in his hip pocket. Two cell phones, identical in color and design, were on the dresser. One had a metal band with a serial number on the back, clearly a county phone. It had received no calls since early yesterday morning.
The other phone was off. Joseph pushed the power switch and saw the icon for voicemail flashing in one corner of the screen. He accessed the account and tapped in the first four digits of their shared birthday, snorting in frustrated amusement at his boneheaded brother when the password was accepted. “Call me, man. It’s Wednesday, no, it’s Thursday morning. Call me as soon as you get this.”
A car’s engine gunned behind the caller’s strained voice and the message ended abruptly. Joseph looked at the phone’s screen. No name, just a number. Prior to this last call, the phone’s history showed outgoing calls, all to this same number. Incoming calls were from a different number, but from that number only. Moses had no mobile phone bills in the desk. Unease settled at the base of Joseph’s skull and he flashed on the photograph of the white woman in Moses’ wallet. This must be a burner, a pay-as-you-go phone. Not a good sign. His finger hovered over the send button, but Joseph wasn’t sure if he was ready to deal with whatever hidden life this phone represented.
He turned the volume on both phones to vibrate and pocketed them. His mother’s keys were on the dresser and Joseph slipped back across the hall, leaving them in his room. Checking the bathroom they shared, Joseph dropped his dirty clothes in the hamper and packed his toiletries.
Stepping back into his brother’s bedroom, Joseph stopped short. An unopened box containing a new laptop was partially hidden between the desk and wall, a basketball balanced on top. The brothers had gone shopping this past weekend after Joseph demanded that Moses step into the modern world and connect to the internet. He promised that he would keep his hands off the laptop, but would help Moses learn at least the basics of functioning virtually.
His fingertips itched. The terms of his supervised release from prison stipulated that Joseph was banned from using a computer or the internet for the duration of his parole, plus a further three years. A local parole officer had come by the house twice to ensure Joseph was sticking to those terms. So far, he’d been clean. But abstinence was impossible. Physically impossible. Joseph had spent his adult life, short of two years and
some months in prison, parked in front of a computer terminal.
But then he remembered.
Joseph was dead.
And Moses had no restrictions on his computer usage.
A smile flickered at the corners of Joseph’s mouth. With a computer, checking out the possible suspects in his brother and mother’s murders would be a piece of cake. There was nowhere Greasy Lou Spitano or the white woman in Moses’ photograph could hide. Grasping the laptop box in one hand and his duffel in the other, Joseph left Moses’ room with something resembling a spring in his step.
CHAPTER 25
KADO’S BRUSH WHISPERED OVER the handle of the pump and he frowned at the smeared, greasy mess the gray powder revealed beneath the gas station’s harsh fluorescent lights. It was seven-thirty and the sun was up, but the tall trees that crowded the small station had its forecourt in twilight. He switched to black powder and moved to the keypad. Several usable prints appeared. Since the last gasoline sale at The Whitehead Store was for cash, this part of the exercise was probably futile, but Kado had rather be complete than criticized.
Martinez stood with his arms crossed across his massive chest and watched Kado work. His eyebrows rose as the forensics man dipped a brush in the pot of black powder and worked his way from side to side and up and down the pump’s white plastic face. “What are you doing?”
“Dusting for prints.”
“I get that part, smartass. Why are you wasting time on those?”
Kado stopped mid-twirl and looked at Martinez. “Pull that nozzle out of the pump I’ve already dusted.”
“What?”
“Just do it.”
Martinez moved to the next pump, lifted its handle and held it up.
“Pump.”
“Into what?”
“Use your imagination.”
He sighed, and then lowered the nozzle to an invisible gas tank. Flashing a smug smile, Martinez leaned toward the pump and placed his palm on its face. “Now what?”
“What are you doing?”
“Pumping pretend gas into a pretend tank.”
“And where’s your other hand?”
Martinez’ grin vanished as he turned to look at his hand where it rested on the pump. He carefully replaced the nozzle. “I’ll go see how Truman’s getting on in the courtyard and stockroom. Carry on.”
“Gracias. I will.”
CHAPTER 26
THE OLD MAN STEPPED out of his work boots and into the kitchen, passing the basket of freshly washed eggs to his wife. She nudged them onto a counter and finished the call with her sister, hanging the phone up with a smirk. Humming the theme from The Phantom of the Opera, she placed a plate laden with fried eggs, bacon, and greasy fried potatoes on the table.
He poured coffee from the percolator. “Is she going to see it?”
His wife jellied toast, her lips pursed. “I told her how wonderful the show was. But it’s sold out in Tyler. She’d have to go to Little Rock. It’s a shame productions with the New York cast come through East Texas so infrequently,” she said with a satisfied smile.
Into their seventies and still the one-upmanship continues, the old man thought.
“Thank you for taking me last night. I know it was late when we got home, but I so enjoyed it.” She batted her eyes at him and he saw once again the sixteen year old girl who had captivated him. He melted a bit. He’d caught her when she was young enough to train and his judgment had been sound; she’d become the kind of wife any man would’ve been proud to possess – an excellent housekeeper and cook, sensitive but strict mother and grandmother, still trim and attractive, still obedient.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he answered, and reached for the Forney Cater. The faces of two smiling black people stared up at him, and he scanned the accompanying article.
“Terrible tragedy,” his wife commented. “The family of one of our very own police officers, murdered in their home.”
The old man murmured a reply and unfolded the paper. An image of The Whitehead Store, its forecourt wrapped in crime scene tape, was in one corner. The old man’s heart skipped a beat as he studied the picture and then read the article. Coffee sloshed into the saucer when he reached for his cup and his wife tutted as she mopped up the liquid. He barely heard her.
Fear rippled through his bowels. Calvin Whitehead was dead. Another member of The Church of the True Believer gone. The article didn’t specify how he died, and the old man would have to dig to find out whether this was a one-off attack, or if The Church’s remaining members were under threat. His mind flashed to Hitch, banished from Forney County those weeks ago, and he checked his watch. It was Thursday morning, a little after seven-thirty. His designated time to contact Hitch was fourteen hours away. Ample time to gather the information he needed.
He soothed his wife with a muttered apology and watched as she refilled his coffee and added cream, insisting on carrying the cup and saucer to the living room for him. She placed it on the small table beside his recliner and bustled from the room. The old man dug in his overall pocket and found his pipe. He placed it, cold and empty, between his teeth and let the sweet, sooty taste soothe him. Whitehead was a good man and didn’t deserve a violent end. Not long ago, the call would’ve come directly to him shortly after Whitehead’s body was found. He hated that his network had been disrupted, but resigned himself to making the calls. Rebuilding The Church was a slow process, but he was a patient man.
He settled into the recliner and retreated inside his mind; an ancient Venus flytrap, hinged jaws stretched wide, exuding sweet nectar to attract the resources he needed to protect his domain.
CHAPTER 27
CASS HOISTED THE FORENSICS case and stared at the man guarding the Franklin’s front porch. Her skin crawled as she recognized Officer Hugo Petchard. He wore a brown short-sleeved uniform that fit his scrawny frame poorly, and his stance –– hands on hips, feet spread wide, mirrored sunglasses perched high on his nose – was as defensive as she remembered. Anger boiled in her guts but she strode toward the house calmly, promising herself that she would behave, forcing a half smile to her lips.
He whipped the sunglasses from his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Working. What are you doing here?”
“Sheriff Hoffner hasn’t signed you back on.”
“I don’t have a rich daddy to bribe the sheriff into giving me my job back.”
Petchard’s chin jutted forward. “Hoffner brought me back because he knows I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Bullshit,” Cass snapped, her vow of control evaporating. She took a step forward. “He brought you back because your doctor daddy funds his election campaign.”
Petchard’s pale face colored but he stood his ground. “Sounds like that suspension hasn’t improved your language any.”
“Sounds like your involvement with that cult hasn’t made you any more observant. Heard you missed poor Iris Glenthorne’s body three times.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“How can it not be? You totally missed a decomposing body. Even the smell. All three times. And still the sheriff keeps you on.”
“Yeah, well at least I don’t shoot my fellow officers without provocation.”
“I should’ve let him slice you open. We could fill your position with someone competent.” He bristled but she spoke first. “When you’re signing my payroll check, Hugo, I might be interested in what you think. Until then, you’re just the monkey who guards empty houses.” Cass held out the temporary ID Grey had printed for her. “I’m working for the Medical Examiner’s office, and Grey loaned me to Kado. Where’s the log?”
He snatched the clipboard from the porch. She squinted down at the signatures. “Moses has already been here?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“He left in his car?”
“Yeah,” he repeated, his tone recalcitrant. “So what?”
“What did he take with him?”
“I don’t know
. A bag. A laptop box. I didn’t search the man when he left.”
“You should have, idiot,” Cass said as she signed. “This is a crime scene. We need an inventory of what was here when the Franklins were shot.”
Petchard’s mouth dropped open to protest but Cass jammed the clipboard into his chest. She squinted at his cheek. “Are you wearing make-up now?”
He lifted a hand and wiped his face, looking with surprise at the powdery film and streak of rusty color on his fingers. “My girlfriend…”
“A girlfriend? Really? That shade of lipstick, raven red or whatever, doesn’t suit you. You’re more a baby pink kind of guy,” Cass said. She moved past him to duck under the yellow crime scene tape and felt his eyes on her back as she reached for the doorknob. He remained silent as she put her shoulder into the stiff door and disappeared inside the house.
It took several moments for the coppery smell of drying blood to work its way through her mouth, nose, and sinuses to become a tolerable fug. Cass stood in the foyer, letting the echoes of last night’s tragedy wash over her. The bodies were gone, the bustle of crime scene investigation stilled. But remnants of the violence visited upon this house still lingered. It would be some time before even human presence could exorcise these deaths.
She slipped on a pair of latex gloves, took a camera from the forensics case, and made shots of the foyer before squatting to examine a pair of massive tennis shoes. They were a size thirteen, the white leather spider-webbed with cracks, the tread so slick it was almost nonexistent. She hesitated, and then put them in an evidence bag and made a note to ask Mojo whether these were his shoes or Joseph’s. It was possible that Joseph had been somewhere or run into someone who followed him home. A long shot, she knew, but it wouldn’t take long to examine the shoes for trace evidence and eliminate them as a potential source of information.
Avengers of Blood Page 12